Chapter 3 - The Unraveling
"Give me that phone!" Grant roared, abandoning all corporate composure as he scrambled across the walnut table, knocking over a crystal water pitcher that shattered in an explosion of sharp glass and pooling liquid across the Persian rug. Eleanor and Conrad jumped out of their seats in sheer shock, their aristocratic masks instantly melting into expressions of raw, unbridled terror as they watched the golden golden-boy heir completely lose his mind. Sloane gasped, clutching her abdomen as if the breaking glass were a physical blow, her eyes darting wildly between Grant and me. I didn't flinch, nor did I pull my hand back. I simply tilted the phone screen just enough so that the bold, undeniable data points stared directly into Grant’s dilated, bloodshot eyes. The laboratory results were unequivocal, backed by high-resolution genetic markers, mitochondrial DNA tracking, and categorical exclusion algorithms. The biological father of Sloane Pierce’s unborn twins wasn't Grant Whitmore. It wasn't even anyone inside the Whitmore social circle.
"Read it out loud, Grant," I whispered, my voice cutting through the ringing silence of the room like a razor-sharp scalpel. "Tell your father and your precious mother whose heirs are really growing inside your mistress's belly." Grant’s lips parted, but no sound came out; his throat was completely dry as he stared at the name of the true father listed on the genetic report—a notorious, ruthless rival real estate developer from the opposing side of Chicago with whom Sloane had spent an awfully suspicious amount of late nights while Grant was busy entertaining clients. "This... this is a fabrication! A malicious forgery!" Sloane shrieked, her voice pitching up into an hysterical, ear-piercing octave as she scrambled backward, knocking her chair over onto the floor. "Grant, don't listen to her! She’s vindictive, she’s insane, she’s trying to sabotage us because she's barren!" But Grant wasn't listening to her anymore. He looked at Sloane with a sudden, violent realization dawning behind his eyes—all those unexplained weekend trips to Miami, the sudden designer handbags she had been wearing before he started funding her lifestyle, the subtle physical traits of a man Grant despised more than anyone else in the city. The twenty-eight million dollar settlement check sitting in the leather folder suddenly felt like pocket change compared to the catastrophic, multi-generational humiliation that had just detonated in their pristine corporate sanctuary.
